WeissKreuz Winding Down
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: The Weiss boys have coping routines. Bloody missions, Yohji and Aya winding down, passion gone bad... ANGST. I Transformation, II Trapped, III All Over, IV Full Circle, V To Live Forever. Each set at a certain time during Kapitel.
1. Chapter 1 Transformation

**Winding Down I (Transformation)**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.  
Warning: Implied boy love. Therefore rated NC-15/M. ANGST.

Let me know whether you liked it, folks!

**xxx**

Aya streaks out of the burning building in a flurry of crimson and black, katana gleaming in a deadly arch as he takes down the last guard without even pausing, a nasty, forceful swipe of cruel elegance that slices the man open across his stomach, and dashes after Yohji and Omi to the getaway car that screams to a halt even as they almost run into it.

Ken has the engine revving, and as soon as they pile and tumble into the non-descript stolen saloon, he is off, slipping away into the rainy night quietly, carefully, and only when he threads into the mainstream traffic does he turn on the headlights. Yohji smokes, Omi slouches by his side in the backseat, head lolling back, eyes firmly shut, his young face pinched and blank. Ken is hunched over the wheel and focused on bringing them out safely, and Aya sits stiff and straight on the passenger seat, watching out with him. None of them likes to talk after a messy job.

Behind them reigns mayhem – a series of explosions rocking the complex of warehouses by the docks, showers of debris scattering everywhere, and flames shooting sky-high, mirrored ghastly in the oily waters of the harbour. An apocalypse en miniature, complete with half a dozen hacked and pierced bodies, to keep busy the forensics experts of the police that are about to arrive in a cavalcade of flashing lights and armoured cars.

By the time their handiwork makes it into the news, Aya climbs out of the car, adjusts his katana, and wanders off into the maze of dirty streets not too far from their latest theatre to pick his way home by way of an elaborate detour, Yohji slips into the darkness to scan his sector, and Omi and Ken make off to dispose of the car and then loop in from the opposite direction.

The dirty orange darkness fades into smoggy daylight when they trundle in, one by one, exhausted, still raging high on adrenaline, dragging their mission mode into their home. Omi makes haste to check the house from the groundfloor to the study at the top. Ken helps him; they chat agitatedly, in subdued voices heavy with tiredness and thick with excitement. Yohji disappears into the garage for a smoke, wolfing down not only one cigarette but almost an entire packet, and for once, Aya says nothing but tries hard to ignore the stink of tobacco that threads through the house.

Yohji sinks into a crouch by the door and closes his eyes as he leans back against the cool wall. He wriggles uncomfortably: the harigane is not a clean weapon, his clothes are soiled with blood and excrement from the men who writhed to their deaths in the deadly snare, the stench makes him heave and retch in between lungfuls of smoke. He will drag his rags off in a moment and stuff them into the large washing machine with the clothes the others have already deposited here before entering the house. He will set the machine going when he feels steady enough, and then sit here naked bar his briefs until the house is still and he can take his shower without being disturbed by Omi and Ken, and without keeping Aya waiting. Yohji always takes the longest to scrub and preen himself until he is content with the result.

Bloody high maintenance, Ken had scolded him when they became Weiss and were trying to figure each other out, quirks, habits, nothing too deep so nothing could bite them, but they had established the order of bathroom use back then, and Yohji had not argued. Omi and then Ken, followed by Aya, with Yohji the peaceful last one to get cleaned up, usually only a couple of hours before they were due to open the shop. He got to sleep in by way of compensation, and it was useful to prick Omi's never-fading guilt complex because it would result in the chibi making tea and breakfast for Yohji.

He counted the cigarette stubs on the floor, checked by shaking the crumpled packet, and rose to his feet. Staggering towards the machine, he tore off the filthy garments and pushed them in with the rest, set the programme and lurched off even as the machine rumbled into action.

The house lay in sleepy silence now. In the kitchen, the tap dripped softly into the sink, a small sign of life in the grey half-light that seeped through the bamboo blinds. Yohji climbed the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky ones and not touching the bannister because he did not fancy cleaning up bloody fingerprints. Warm humidity wafted from the gaping bathroom door, and Yohji went to take his shower, wash his hair, shave and comb. Finally he wrapped a towel round his middle, gave his image in the steamed-up mirror a vague grin, somewhere between relief and vanity, and with his hair slicked back and still dripping, he padded down the hallway.

Omi's bedroom door stood open; his bed was untouched. Of late, the chibi would unfailingly crawl in with Ken after missions that turned into slaughter. By now, they probably were asleep, Omi curled up with his back to Ken who would be content folding his broad frame around the younger man as though this could shield them from the nightmares. All was silent in Ken's room as Yohji passed by, heading towards Aya's door.

He leaned against it, touched his brow to the cool wood and listened for a moment. He heard Aya shuffle about, the sloshing of water being poured from a pitcher into a large bowl, enamel clanking against metal. Yohji suppressed the urge for another cigarette. Softly, he rapped, and the door swung open almost instantly.

Aya wore a plain grey yukata, slipped off his shoulders and arms and bunching around his hips in a beautiful contrast to his white skin and red hair. He gave Yohji a blinking glance. One of his eyes was still purple, the other one a misty blue-grey, with a dark rim around the iris that gave it brilliance and depth. Between index finger and thumb of his right hand he held a violet contact lens.

Without a word, he turned and walked to the low table near the window. Yohji let himself in and carefully clicked the door shut, then he slipped to the white futon on one side of the large, starkly white room and sat down, leaning back against the wall, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, long hands in his lap playing idly with a cigarette lighter.

He had come to watch. He liked watching Aya under any circumstances, but since he had found out what Aya did in his room after missions, he had battered and squirmed and begged his way into being allowed to witness what never ceased to baffle him - Aya sharing with Yohji what would be one of his most intimate momets, something he preferred to do in the safe retreat of his tatami-clad room instead of in the shower. And so Yohji resisted the urge to go for another smoke, and stayed still, staring at Aya in fascination.

Aya knelt and removed the lens from his other eye. He set the purple contacts aside in their little container and began to wash his bright crimson mop of hair. Dipping his head forward and soaking the fiery mane in warm, soapy water, he scrubbed slowly and patiently, lathering up and rinsing with water from the battered enamel pitcher, until the water was a cloudy red and Aya's hair a glistening dark brown. Yohji tossed him a bottle with conditioner that sat atop a small canvas chest of drawers by the head-end of the futon, and Aya caught it without missing a beat to slather the stuff into his soaking hair.

He rose, picked up the bowl and left to flush the soiled water down the toilet. Whe he returned, he was towelling his hair into an almost dry state. He gathered soap, shampoo, lens container, and stowed everything away in the chest of drawers, before pulling up his yukata and finally sinking to his knees on the futon, opposite Yohji.

Their eyes met, and Yohji read the same question, the same fear and insecurity in those blue-grey ones that he would always find there when Aya was not Aya anymore. Abyssinian, Aya, the flamboyant killing machine was gone, leathers and katana and brilliant colours, earring and all, carefully obliterated by stowing away clothes and weapon, hiding away and washing off all outer signs that it had ever existed.

To reveal a young man with a pale, regular, almost plain face, soft eyes the colour of the autumn sky, dark brown hair and a gentle mouth. He wore nothing but the yukata that traced the lines of a slender body that had not quite filled out yet into the muscular form of a man.

On a small tray in the corner of the room furthest from the futon lay a calligraphed scroll and a pair of reading glasses, along with a number of rice cakes that were placed in a neat row. The cloying scent of incense began to make the air murky. Yohji did not object. There would be as many cakes and smoke sticks as they had left dead bodies on the site of their latest mission.

For a heartbeat, they both sat in silence, before Yohji leaned over to brush a stray strand of hair out of the still face with solemn eyes. "Ran," he whispered, letting his fingers trail over high cheekbones and a firm jaw, tracing the familiar lines, making sure he did not dream, that this was still the man he knew.

His partner closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, a wave of relief washing over his face. Yohji enfolded him in a tight, hard embrace. "Ran," he murmured again, pressing his face into lush brown hair to soak up its scent, sliding his hands slowly over the contours of the warm body in his arms, reclaiming every inch as he eased them both down onto the futon and pulled the sheets over them. He refused to wonder whether it would always be like this.

For now, Aya's transformation was complete.

He was himself again.

He was Ran.

And a night of murder had been but a dark dream.

**xxx**


	2. Chapter 2 Trapped

**Winding Down II (Trapped)**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.  
Warning: References to sex. Therefore rated NC-15/M. ANGST.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed my stories. Let me know how you liked this one.I have amended it quite a bit, including the ending, hence this re-posting.

**xxx**

Sometimes jobs suck, Yohji mused as he stared out of the window of the getaway car Ken piloted with dreamy ease and lightning speed through the beginnings of the morning rush hour of the big city. Grey light began to replace the neon glow of the black and orange night, seeping into the glittering streets and fizzling into murky dusk in the dirtier corners, bashfully hidden beneath layers of glam.

Omi was nodding on the backseat, head on his folded arms on his knees, his tousled blond hair streaked with rusty brown. He had the crossbow securely wedged under his elbows. As though he would have to zap someone off any moment now, Yohji thought with a quick glance into the passenger mirror. But if experience was anything to go by, they were safe now because they had wiped out the hornet's nest they had encountered.

Since working for Kritker, he had amassed more experience than he cared for. They all had, since becoming Weiss.

Aya sat stiffly, his back rigid, the blank katana upright between his thighs, tip resting on the floor.

"Sheathe the damn thing," Yohji grumbled irritably, fumbling for the last cigarette of his last pack. "Or you'll chop off your best bits."

"Stop stinking out the fucking car," Aya snapped back, shooting a glare at his partner in the mirror.

"Quit bitching, both of you," Omi sighed. He clamped one hand over the backrest of Ken's seat and pulled himself up.

The chibi looked bushed, and no wonder – being thorough and a stickler for detail, he had co-ordinated that damn mission as carefully as always, but the briefing had not warned them of the additional contingent of security guards who were hanging out at the drugs factory, or of the new firewall for the computer system into which Omi needed to hack. They had been expected and received a nasty reception once trapped inside the building.

The car hobbled over a bump in the road, and Omi clasped his left arm just above the elbow and winced. He had not been able to breach the firewall before they were surprised by the armed guards, Yohji had to haul him out before setting off the charges they had placed on entering the building, and even this had gone wrong because it was too early, the wiring incomplete, and he and Omi had been caught in a hail of debris. Something had hit the chibi – some metal shrapnel, a splinter of brickwork, they did not know – and only after escaping the flaming inferno that was hard on their heels did they have time to staunch the bleeding with a field dressing.

Aya had been magnificient, bringing up the rear, slicing and dicing with his blade, while Omi used his crossbow with deadly efficiency, heedless of his wound, and Yohji spent half a dozen wires.

Usually, they tried to create as little fuss as possible when going for the information Kritiker wanted. Now and then, something slipped and they had to hack their way through.

This time they left no living soul on the premises. It had been wholesale slaughter – once Yohji and Omi were safe, Aya had stormed back in to chase down the guards to the last man. A nightmare, and Yohji had stumbled out of the blazing ruin of the former warehouse dazed, bloodied, and with a vague sense of failure.

That was now sharpening into something acute. Reality stung.

With a shudder, Yohji recalled slumping into the car and Ken talking agitatedly, Omi muttering something soothing and slightly unnerved, his young voice thick with pain, while they were waiting for Aya. Gotta go now, Ken had announced when police sirens began to approach, and only when he turned the car in a screaming arc did they spot Aya.

Emerging from the burning building with smoke billowing around him as he kicked open the door and stalked out, carrying the katana flat on his shoulder, a garish vision of black and crimson. Run, idiot, Yohji had yelled at him, but Aya had the nerve to coolly stride across and slip into the car without the slightest sign of distress.

Ken took them as close to the Koneko as he dared, given that dawn was rising fast, the car was stolen, and he had taken great care to criss-cross his tracks in the thickening traffic. Yohji groaned when in a narrow, dark alleyway he clambered out of the car – his entire body was aching, and from the palms of his hands seeped blood through the thick leather gloves where the wire had sliced through them from repeated strenuous use. He grabbed Omi who by now looked queasy, and firmly hooked his arm round the younger man's waist.

Aya was gone in a flash, melted into the shadows of the dull morning. He would spend some time sneaking around to check whether anyone had followed them after all. By the time he dropped in at the Koneko, any pursuers would be dead as sure as Yohji knew his own name.

Blessed be routines.

Showers for example.

The chibi went first, after having been fussed over by Ken and Yohji who wanted to be absolutely sure the ragged tear on Omi's upper arm was a mere fleshwound. In the garage, they forced him flat onto a work bench, cleaned the wound, poured half a bottle of antiseptic over it, which made Omy cry and squirm, and Ken stitched him up expertly, with the benefit of a hastily applied local anaestethic and Yohji holding the boy still. Omi nearly passed out, but they stuffed him with painkillers, and Ken went with him to help with his shower before he could spiral down into shock.

Aya sneaked in silently, through the hatch in the roof. This was unusual because it meant more work cleaning up puddles of dirt and blood and heaps of filthy clothes that had to be gathered and carried downstairs to the washing machine, but he was done in minutes, efficient as always, and went to take his shower. Yohji, naked bar his briefs, retrieved his reserve stash of cigarettes and cheap sake from under the work bench to calm his fraying nerves and cramping muscles. Then he settled into a crouch next to the rumbling machine, smoking and patiently waiting his turn to use the bathroom.

Yeah, routines. Sometimes nothing else was left to keep them going.

He leaned back and tried to think of nothing as he put the bottle to his lips. Only to think of everything. A wheel of fire and blood and Aya and Omi and Ken churning in his mind: Ken, closed-up and concentrated on saving their ass. Omi methodical and stern, steering them during the assault without losing his cool once. Aya with his katana in the heat of slaughter. Aya with blood that was not his own spurting all over his face and chest. Aya stinking of blood when he crawled into the stolen car to join them. That was why Yohji would not quit smoking on missions: the taste of tobacco kept him from retching.

Quickly, he breathed out in an attempt to settle his heaving stomach. Shivering with cold, he counted the cigarette stubs and, holding on to the washing machine, hauled himself up. Aya never took long and would have finished by now; time to get cleaned up. He stumbled over the empty bottle and felt a silly grin spread over his face as he wove his way upstairs to the bathroom.

The water was still streaming.

Cautiously, Yohji pushed at the door. It swung open, and Yohji hissed in a sharp breath. In the tiled shower cubicle stood Aya, naked, sagged against the wall, his hands cramped around the piping of the shower to keep himself from slipping down. His face and body were streaked a lurid crimson that leaked from his dyed hair and pooled turgidly around his feet. He started when Yohji stepped inside the steamy room, and shot a glare at him. "Get out. I'm not done yet."

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. Now let me finish."

Confused, Yohji took another step, but Aya stiffened and fairly melted into the corner of the enclosure. "Balinese!"

This stopped Yohji in his tracks. Aya had never used his mission name in the house before. Or kept his damn katana in the corner of the shower, for that matter... After a moment of tense silence, Yohji locked gaze with Aya and made to pull off his last scrap of clothing. Aya's eyes widened as they broke away to follow Yohji's hands, before snapping up again. "Get. Out."

"You get out. It's my turn now," Yohji replied calmly, trying to cover up his rising disquiet. Aya should be in his room by now, going through his own little routine of winding down. Rice cakes, incense sticks, some short verses to appease the spirits of the men they had killed, and then he would be himself again. Warm and pliant in Yohji's arms, loving and tender and yielding. Ran. Plain and simple.

Instead, Aya suddenly grabbed the katana and ripping a towel from the rack by the door, he dashed past Yohji who, mindful of the blade, tried to grab his arm, but Aya who was slippery with soap and water yanked it free and slid from the bathroom in a flurry of red and white, dragging the blade along.

Yohji tried to smother his rising worry while scrubbing down and washing his hair, but by the time he towelled it dry, his hands were shaking madly and his heart was thumping hard in his chest. Wrapping the towel round his hips, he followed Aya.

Who had left a track of crimson all the way from the bathroom to his bedroom, slurred prints of small, firm feet in a hurry.

Clad in a pair of black drawstring trousers, he sat crosslegged in the middle of his tatami covered room, his back to the door. He did not stir when Yohji softly closed it and leaned against the wall. Aya's skin was still soiled and his hair streaked brown and red, dripping with dye. The mats that he took such pains keeping clean were now soaking up rapidly spreading puddles of red water. Yohji's gaze strayed to the makeshift altar in the far corner of the room, but it held none of the small offerings Aya usually placed there after a bloody mission.

Aya was moving, the muscles of his arms and shoulders shifting subtly in monotous motion. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Yohji stepped into the room and dropped to his knees by Aya's side.

By his feet lay a scattering of white origami squares. He was folding. Paper cranes. He worked swiftly, almost frantically, without pause or thought. Yohji felt a surge of anxiety wash through him as he watched slim, calloused fingers nimbly crease the paper, press down and sharpen the fold, bend and smooth until another crane fell onto the growing heap by Aya's feet.

Those small feet that always reminded Yohji of white birds, ready to fly from this life into another. One where Ran would be happy.

"Hey," Yohji whispered, lifting his hand to brush some soggy strands of hair from Aya's pale face, but Aya shied from his touch without interrupting his work. Yohji picked up one of the flimsy creations and, turning it slowly in his hands, swallowed hard. "Want help?" he murmured, trying to sound confident when he was burning and freezing inside.

Aya did not reply though his lips were moving. Counting, Yohji guessed as he felt himself go cold. "Let's go get some sleep," he tried again, this time winding his arm round Aya's hunched shoulders. To find with relief that those hard hands ceased their work. He could sense Aya warring with himself whether to lean into the touch or pull away again, and pulled him close before he could think about it too much.

"Sleep," Yohji urged softly. "Let's go to bed. We can sort everything else later, ne?"

"My birds..." Aya's voice was a ragged whisper, and when he lifted his head to look at Yohji, his eyes were wide and unfocused.

Yohji enfolded him in an embrace, trembling because Aya trembled, hurting because he did not know what to do, panicked because he was afraid at what he realised was happening and felt so balefully unable to stop. "They're for you? I'll make you hundreds, thousands of them..."

"They're for Ran."

One thousand paper cranes, and you'll live forever...

Yohji pressed him close and began to rock back and forth, lacing his fingers through wet hair and holding him so tight that both of them found it hard to breathe. "Ran doesn't need paper cranes," he muttered, "'cos he's here, with me, in my arms. He'll always be here. I'll always love you." He touched a kiss onto the crimson head. "Now, how about sorting out your offerings – I'll help if you show me what-"

"Yohji!"

And Yohji fell silent, fear sealing his mouth. A long silence fell before Aya stirred and began to push out of the embrace. And suddenly, his voice, this dark, rich voice, was clear and cool. "I lost count."

He had lost count of how many lives they had taken on that mission. He could not tell how many incense sticks and rice cakes he should place into that little corner dedicated to the dead souls of killers, dealers and other assorted scum.

This time, Aya could not cleanse his own blood tainted soul. Bereft of his ritual, he was trapped.

With a desperate gasp, Yohji tried to hold on to him, but Aya peeled away his arms and rose to his feet, crushing some of the paper birds as he stepped back and looked down at Yohji. "Please leave me now."

Purple, Yohji thought with a flash of pain, he has not taken out his contacts, he'll damage his eyes, gods, we're all a bit messed up... "At least let me help you with your hair. You just need some rest, and everything will sort itself, you'll see. We can find out tomorrow how many..."

"Don't," Aya said softly. Don't try to appease, to talk nonsense, to tell comfort lies. "I checked with Omi and Ken. Because of the additional contingent, there's no way anyone could tell how many we left behind."

"I love you," was all Yohji knew to say, rather incongruously, as he got up too and reached out for Aya. "I love you, Ran."

Aya stepped back until his back hit the dresser with the pitcher and bowl he usually used for washing the dye out of his hair. He braced his arms behind him and stared at Yohji, his expression changing from torn to impassive as though a cool wave had washed away all emotion. "Ran is dead, Yohji. He died tonight."

Yohji came up close and without hesitation, moulded against his shorter companion. "He'll always be here," he insisted, his gaze as intense as his voice, "With me. In my heart, in my mind." He lifted his hand to Aya's mouth and softly thumbed over his lips. "Ran lives. Just give him a chance, for goodness sake. That," he nodded at the corner with the remainders of previous offerings, "isn't everything."

But he could not suppress a shudder when those purple eyes bored into his with an odd expression. "You don't understand." Aya tensed, Yohji could feel him struggle as before, muscles shifting, bunching beneath stained skin, and suddenly, Aya shoved him back forcefully. Yohji stumbled and caught the fall on the edge of the futon.

"What's there to understand?" he gasped, trying to get up, but Aya was over him in a flash, hovering close, just out of kissing reach. "I love you," Yohji tried to reason with him. "You don't scare me away that easily. I told you it would be for life, so unless..." His voice faltered as he met Aya's eyes again, and then he was nudged roughly onto the futon.

"Ran is dead, Yotan," Aya gasped as he tore the towel off Yohji's hips and pressed his knees apart. "Perhaps you'll get that into your hard head when I'm done with you tonight... or you leave, now!"

Yohji stared into glittering purple and swallowed hard, his heart burning, his limbs seizing up in anticipation of the pain he could see flaring up in Aya's gaze. "I won't leave you. I'll always love you. Ran," he murmured, and yelled when sharp teeth bit down on his lips to stifle his words.

Sensual and experienced, Yohji had nearly always been the one taking. Bathing Aya in tenderness and passion, taking joy in giving pleasure to his lover, making Ran melt under his hands and shiver and cry out when he spent himself for Yohji who would be drunk with never-ceasing amazement that it was him doing this to Aya, to Ran.

Now there was only pain, rocking, searing, ripping agony from his bleeding lips, his bitten tongue, from the welts and teeth marks on his neck and nipples, from the bruises on his manhood and the rents up his backside, and while Yohji finally let his eyes fall shut and longed for it to end, he kept stubbornly chanting his love for Ran.

And his fingers locked over the crunched, sweat-damp paper crane.

While Aya tore him apart.


	3. Chapter 3 All Over

**Winding Down III – All Over**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.  
Warning: NC-15/M. ANGST.

**xxx  
**  
Thank you to everyone who reviewed my stories. Let me know how you liked this one.

Cheers  
Aabunai

**xxx**

He had hoped to leave quietly. Ken was away with Omi, and Yohji, careless of the late hour, had gone to sort out a few things regarding the closing down of the flower shop, saying farewell to a few good customers no doubt. Aya shook off the thought. It did not matter, now that everything was over.

Over, swept away in a wave of fire and then by the tide that had drowned Eszet and Schwarz and them. They all had gone under, to be reborn as something different.

Well, that was the theory at least. Reality hit home soon enough, while they were still trying to recover from wounds of the body and mind. Kritiker, or what was left of it, logged their demands: they were too much trouble to the organisation; Kritiker wanted only Omi, and the young man accepted the offer. So he confronted his former team mates with the decision to disband Weiss, close the Koneko and set them free.

Free.

The word tasted stale.

Aya listened into the stillness of the house. His room, makeshift home for a few years, was empty, white and silent. Gone the altar in the corner, the futon, the tatami mats. The collection of haiku bound in fine silk and the few clothes he owned were neatly folded into a holdall, along with the passport to his new life.

He had told no one.

Especially not Yohji.

In spite of himself, a dragging ache settled in his chest, and he tried to rub it away angrily with one hand as he shouldered the bag. His plane was due later that night, allowing him a few hours to prepare his leaving. Methodically, he had cleared his room, stuffed everything obsolete into the incinerator, packed, washed black dye into his flamboyant hair and replaced the purple contact lenses with brown ones. A pair of black mirrored shades served to hide most of his face, making him more comfortable. In blue jeans and a grey sweater, he felt safe from prying eyes – no one would turn to stare at an ordinary looking young man, and customs would be content with his credentials as a kendo teacher and his katana safely stowed away at the bottom of the bag.

Yohji was still not back.

Aya pressed his lips together in a sharp line and yanked the bag up, slipping the strap over his shoulder even as he reached for the door knob.

That much for promises – Yohji could not let off flirting and sleeping around.

They were just too different.

He clicked the door open and softly stepped into the hall. Every sound had an echo now that the Koneko was stripped bare to the walls. Aya wanted to run, and forced himself to take long, measured strides instead, down the softly creaking steps of the battered wooden staircase, towards the kitchen he had to pass on his way to the backdoor. Not looking behind once, fleeing memories and sensations and the blackness of a hollow past, for he longed to breathe deeply the smell of the city that surely now would have a different flavour.

For he could leave as he pleased.

To seek what?

Freedom, he mused lazily, seemed such a downtrodden concept.

There was no reason to hurt inside now.

He nearly dropped the bag when he stepped into the kitchen for there by the counter with the kettle about to boil, stood Yohji, with his back to Aya. In a sloppy black t-shirt and washed-out jeans, arms braced on the worktop, head hung low, hips slanting as he shifted his weight to cross his legs at the ankles. The gesture so much like him that it brought a twitch to Aya's face.

Aya bit his lip. He had no reason to smile.

His eyes had no reason to burn.

The careless apparel though did not fit Yohji's usual meticulously preened self. When had he returned?

The kettle boiled and clicked off. Yohji began to move, filling up one of the two last mugs they had kept after Omi and Ken moved out. He stirred, removed the teabag and finally faced Aya. "Have something hot before you go," Yohji said, holding out the mug to Aya. His arm was steady, muscles sleek and firm under pale golden skin, but Aya saw the fine rings spreading on the transparent green surface of the tea. Yohji's hands, those long, hard, murderous fingers that could be so wonderfully tender, clever and lustful, were shaking with fine tremors.

"You weren't supposed to be here now," was all Aya could say, needlessly shifting the bag on his shoulder.

Yohji replaced the mug on the counter and regarded Aya with a raw glance. "Neither were you, I gather." He fumbled for cigarettes, failed to find any – he was trying to quit smoking. The lack of his usual soothers made him grumpy and strung-up, but he had stopped wheezing when going up a few flights of stairs, and he smelled better.

Yohji without the stink of tobacco, blood and booze smelled of coffee, earth and spice. Sweet and strong. The warmth of life.

Aya shook his head. "That's right, I meant to be gone."

"Without a word? You would have snuck out on me like this?" Yohji's tone wavered somewhere between incredulous and bitter, while he still tried to find something to occupy his hands, until he absentmindedly hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his denims.

"I didn't want a scene," Aya retorted, a little sharper than intended.

Yohji blinked and reached for the collar of his sweater and tugged it looser than it already was. "I won't make one, Ran. Just tell me where you're headed? I'll drive. Would you... well, do you have some time? I won't cling, yanno..." His voice faded somewhat, and he cleared his throat and chanced a carefully guarded gaze at Aya. "Just let me give you a lift. It'll be more comfortable than the damn train."

He was back to swearing.

"Fine then. One whine, and I'm out," Aya snapped. Yohji merely nodded and turned on his heel to stalk off towards the garage.

**xxx**

They drove in silence. Yohji had broken his tobacco-free stretch and was wolfing through his second packet within an hour, making Aya wonder whether one day he would simply die of nicotine poisoning before some lung cancer could eat him alive, and whether it was safe to travel with him pressing the accelerator into the floor panel of the car. The highway was not too busy, and Yohji skilfully weaved through the traffic, red rear lights flitting past in crimson streaks...

Aya gasped and closed his eyes. He hated red.

The smell and the sound of the sea roused him from his doze before Yohji could touch him. He had pulled up by a small diner, conveniently located at a beauty spot close to a slip road off the highway. From the concrete ramp on which the car stood by the side of the glorified fast food shack, they could see the waves rolling in, washing over the sandy beach in luminescent caress, and retreat leaving behind quickly absorbed darkness.

Of course, Yohji had to stink out this moment as well with his cigarettes.

Oddly silent, Yohji climbed out of the car and wandered off, returning a little later with two paper bags and two steaming plastic cups, one containing tea, the other one the vile stuff that should have been coffee according to the board pinned to the outside of the shack. This time, Aya did not refuse. His paper bag contained a plastic box with fast food sushi; Yohji dug into a greasy burger in between lungfuls of smoke and gulps of coffee.

He could be so disgusting, Aya thought, the dragging sensation in his chest bothering him now. Perhaps he should find a good doctor and undergo a medical as soon as he arrived at his destination, if only to exclude anything serious sneaking up on him. He ignored the niggle at the back of his mind that was trying to tell him something else.

Aya picked at the sushi rolls. They were stale, too damp, too sour, but still better than the stuff Yohji regarded as edible. The train would have taken longer; accepting Yohji's offer had given him some time, and he tried not to think. Only to be jarred out of his attempt by Yohji who flopped back onto his seat and leaned back, lifting his arms to cross them behind his head. His face was blank as he stared up into the starless gloom of the city sky. "Whatcha gonna do, Ran?"

"Ran is no more," Aya said, with a twang of impatience, "just get that into your damn head, Yotan. I am leaving because I have a new contract."

"Oh?" Yohji shifted and Aya could feel his gaze again. "What kind of contract?"

"Nothing grand," Aya replied reluctantly, plucking apart the last one of the sushi rolls. "Or dangerous. Low grade protection and security work." The lie came easily to his lips, but before he could add more untruths, Yohji leaned across, cupped the back of Aya's head and silenced him with a kiss.

Tender. Demanding. Loving.

The taste of fast food and cheap coffee, mingling with cigarettes, simple vices for such a complicated mind.

The taste of Yohji.

At this moment, Aya hated him.

Yohji had him still locked into this wonderful, hateful kiss when the roar of a wildly revving engine approached fast, along with the yell of techno music and male voices. Yohji let go, and Aya scooted back into his seat. Headlights fingered over them, and then the other car shrieked to a halt so close that it almost knocked their rear lights. "Get us going, Yohji," Aya said.

"Haaaah, d'ya see that!" someone shouted, accompanied by crude noises loud enough to be heard over the racket that rattled the stereo. "Two friggin' faggots makin' out!"

"They made me go blind," someone else whined, and howling laughter followed. "Uh, and now they've gone all shy! Hey! You!"

"Yohji, get the engine going!" Aya urged, half-turning to assess the situation. Three young hunks playing at being men, high on something, the stench of cheap booze wafting across, the stereo blocking out almost all other sounds. He had not time for this nonsense, he needed to catch his plane, and then he would be done with all of this.

"Hey, sucker, come here, suck mine – candyboy, yeah, you! Blondie!" Another salve of whoops and hooting. Yohji's hands trembled with the effort to stay calm when he was seething, and the engine sprang to life.

"But where are you going, lovely maiden?" one of the boys hollered, to howls of laughter and a chorus of catcalls, "I haven't had your ass yet!" Their engine was still running, and they pulled up when Yohji made to turn to gain the slip road. He was about to reverse, cursing through his teeth, when a dry crack whipped through the noise. Aya's eyes went wide, Yohji felt his throat go dry as he heard the air hiss out of one rear tyre.

"You got a goddamn gun, Ayan?" he gasped, manoeuvring furiously to avoid grinding into the soft sand by the roadside. He reversed a bit, and using the moment the young men needed to react and follow, pressed down on the gas and raced towards the other car. He rammed the front corner, shoving the vehicle out of his way and off the road, metal screeching over metal as bodywork scraped along, amid yells of frustration and pain by the rattled occupants.

"I have no gun," Aya informed him, one hand clawed into the dashboard, the other one digging through his holdall for the katana.

Yohji released another stream of expletives and scrubbed the back of his hand over his face, his glance flicking to the rear mirror. The youths had managed to scrape themselves together too quickly, but their car was stuck in the sand. "Aya," Yohji began to say, but Aya already grabbed him and dragged him down before the second shot whacked through their rear window in a shower of glass. The next bullet flattened another rear tyre. Yohji kept his hands on the steering wheel and tried to drive on, but another tyre went, and the car began to slither uncontrollably on the sandy road.

"Shit," Aya said softly.

Then the last tyre popped with a loud sigh, and the car veered, began to spin slowly, and hit the sand, sinking in to the axles, the angry shriek of the over-revved engine subsiding into a muffled growl as Yohji released the accelerator.

He saw the gleam of the katana, shimmering cold and soothing in the faint light, mirrored in Aya's eyes as the blade hissed from its sheath.

"Aya, they're only kids. Idiots, high and foolin' around." Yohji tapped his pocket, making sure the coil of wire was in its usual place. "Let me try and sort it out."

"Stop that," Aya commanded quietly, "and stay put." He reached for the handle of the door. Over the techno beat from the other vehicle, they could hear angry voices now, closing in fast. Aya needed room to wield his sword, he had to get out and seek cover behind the car to wait for a suitable moment.

It was not a problem - they had done this countless times before.

Before, when there had been missions, dossiers, and few qualms.

Because they could always tell themselves that they were the hidden arm of justice.

"This isn't a mission, Ayan." Yohji flashed him a reassuring smile and slipped out of the car quicker than Aya could reach out to hold him back. Spreading his arms, Yohji wandered into the beams of the headlights, heading for the three young men who were stalking towards him. He was talking; they slowed down, exchanging glances and grins, their expressions wavering between aggressive and silly; then the tallest of the three made another step, lifting the gun with both hands to keep the thing steady; Yohji retreated, turning up his hands, his knees bending and Aya knew he would drop flat to the ground the next second-

The impact of the projectile made Yohji stumble and stagger before he crumpled, his arms pressed against his stomach as he collapsed and rolled onto his side. Aya heard someone yell – himself? – and forgot the plane, the gun, those three young idiots that were now frozen to the spot as he dashed towards Yohji.

Who suddenly lay still and small on a rapidly spreading patch of damp, sticky sand. As if in trance, Aya reached out to feel his pulse at his neck.

It was fading fast.

**xxx**


	4. Chapter 4 Full Circle

**Winding Down IV - ****Full Circle**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.  
Warning: NC-15/M. ANGST.

**xxx**

Thank you to everyone who reviewed my stories. For some of the terms I used, please see the NOTES section at the end of this chapter. I would love some feedback - let me know whether you liked the story so far.

Cheers  
Aabunai

**xxx**

Aya quickly felt Yohji over, touched something hot and sticky soaking the front of his shirt and found the bullet wound to his chest. He hardly knew what he was doing, instincts taking over where clear thoughts abandoned him and his heart sang in agony.

He withdrew his blood-covered hand and rose to his feet to face the three young men.

The youth with the gun still held the thing trained at them, though his hand was not steady, and his boisterous companions had gone rather quiet and jittery. The sea breathed into the summer night, the occasional car buzzed past on the highway, and in the distance, the great city hummed with unceasing restlessness.

Aya swung back the katana, the tip pointing towards the ground, ready to strike up and forward with deadly force."The key to your car," he demanded icily, stretching out the bloodied hand.

"Fuck you," the lad snarled and shook off one of his companions who tried to tug him back by the shoulder.

"The key!" Aya's voice dropped a register as he closed in with a couple of long, smooth strides, the blade glinting faintly in the garish neon colours of the diner's electric billboard."I know this type of gun," he said, hardly loud enough to be heard above the murmur of the sea."You had six shots. The chamber is empty; you'd need a new clip to kill me." A tremor ran down the length of the blade as he lifted it just slightly."This faggot only needs the big knife here."

"The key's in the car," one of the other two boys spluttered, yanking at the arm of his friend."He's not dead, is he?"

"If he is, I'll find you little shites no matter which ass you're gonna crawl up to hide in, and I'll fuck you bloody before gutting you. Pull out your car," Aya hissed, "now! And don't even dream of trying to run off, or I'll cut you down without warning. Hurry!"

He did not wait but was with Yohji in a flash. He turned him and saw bloody foam drizzle from his mouth over his chin, breath coming in ragged gasps, rattling damp and deep in his chest, accompanied by wheezing sounds. Aya pried the shirt open, then rushed for the military first aid kit they kept in the gloves compartment. Methodically, he cut and tore fabric until he had laid the wound bare – he suspected that the bullet had pierced a lung. Bad if they could not get into hospital in time, yet if they did, Yohji stood a good chance of recovering. Aya taped the crimson hole shut with a scrap of sterile plastic foil.

"Ay. . . Ran," Yohji rasped, trying to drag his eyes open, trying to breathe – Aya knew he could feel his lungs filling up with blood, as though he was drowning, the taste foul and metallic, and even with the smallest breath, he would be suffocating and choking at the same time.

"Shut up," Aya snapped, "why didn't you listen?" He watched the three youngsters trying to dig out their car and push it back onto the road, but the sand was deep, they were panicked, screaming at each other, yelling blame and abuse, and way too high to accomplish anything.

In the trunk of Yohji's car lay some stiff fibre glass poles of the old-fashioned, telescope type, along with strong rubber backed canvas sheeting for a field-style tent. Aya had often enough teased him about it - afraid of missing an opportunity in the countryside, Yotan, so you lug your fucknest around with you? Man, you must so need it...

Now he yelped with relief that the thing was still there. Quickly and methodically, he spread out the sheeting, placed two of the stakes on it and folded each side of the canvas over both poles to build a makeshift stretcher. He dragged Yohji onto this, lifted the bars and began to haul him up the slip road.

Behind him, he heard the young men argue, scraps of sounds, the wash of waves over sand, the breeze and the whoosh of vehicles passing on the highway. Where the sea kissed the sky, a sliver of pale light began to paint the horizon, and through the orange dusk that lay over the city passed the tiny lights of a plane, blinking red and yellow like moving stars, or fireflies. Yohji had chased fireflies for him, once, in one of his silly moods when they had been fooling around on the beach not far from here. Now everything sank into a puzzle of sounds and lights that did not make sense to his conscious mind, but his body moved as of its own accord, panting, straining, sweating with effort and fear.

He had not yet reached the embankment of the highway when a car slowed down, pulled into the junction and turned, then stopped, tyres grinding on sandy tarmac. Aya stilled, the poles of the stretcher caught under his elbows, and stared in disbelief as the driver door flew open and a lanky frame unfurled from the seat. Copper hair flying in the breeze, long legs and a certain sway to narrow hips – Aya blinked sweat from his eyes, but it was no hallucination because the man kept stalking towards him.

"Schuldig?" Aya gasped.

"Guten Morgen, Abyssinian," came the soft reply. /1/

Aya cramped one hand around the hilt of his katana."I need your car."

Schuldig cast a quick glance over the lifeless form on the stretcher, then nodded and lit a cigarette."I shall be your faithful taxi," he said quirkily."Well, whatcha waiting for?"

They managed to shove Yohji onto the backbench, his legs folded up, one arm dangling to the floor of the car, while Aya climbed into the passenger seat, the bare sword across his lap. Schuldig tossed the cigarette over his shoulder before slipping in, and without a word he revved the engine and screeched back onto the highway.

Aya sucked in a hissing breath and pressed himself into the seat as Schuldig raced back to the city. If he moved fast, he drove faster still, pale blue eyes unblinkingly concentrated on the sparse traffic that began to grow denser as they closed in, the first sign of the morning rush hour approaching. Aya watched Yohji in the rear mirror. If he would moan at least, but he lay so terribly still, every shallow breath rattling with fluid deep in his chest.

"How careless," a flat whisper reached his ears.

Aya rubbed his eyes and then stared out at the glittering lights of the city that swallowed up the dusky dawn. Schuldig's soft words sank in only belatedly, and Aya briefly glanced at him. Meeting clear, cool eyes for a split second before they flicked back at the road. Aya felt chill."He didn't want me to... I should have killed them."

Schuldig shrugged."Why didn't you?"

Aya paused, the ache in his chest growing heavier with each breath."He'd hate me for it."

"He might not live to hate you," Schuldig pointed out, swerving wildly to avoid ploughing into a delivery van, then cut across three lanes to catch a turn and shooting past a red light, fractions of a second before the opposite stream of traffic dashed forward. Angry hoots faded quickly into the distance behind them.

_Indeed,_ it crossed Aya's mind incongruously, _Yohji always liked risky driving. _

Schuldig pressed the gas down again."Or is it a beyond-the-grave thing, Abyssinian?"

Aya bit his lip."Why were you there?" he ground out, hating Schuldig for every spike of pain his prodding lanced through him.

Another sharp turn knocked Aya against the door and had the katana poking at Schuldig. The tip sliced easily through his jeans, drawing a fine line of blood along his thigh."Take that thing away from me now, would you," he said quietly. "I've been stalking you for a bit and happened to be around. How stupid of him to get into such a mess, but then he always was a bit daft like this."

"Shut up." Aya pulled the katana back when he much rather wanted to shove it right through Schuldig's narrow waist.

"Too sweet for his own good," Schuldig said, rumbled up a curb to avoid an oncoming car that was just passing a van parked to unload in front of a shop, and steered skilfully around stacks of boxes and pallets. "Is this why you want him, Abyssinian?"

"Can't you drive more sensibly? He isn't dead yet."

"He will be if I slow down," Schuldig retorted, glaring intently at the buzzing street they were dashing down. The hospital was close, a multi-storey glass fronted building rising between more old-fashioned concrete facades. They could already make out the wide entrance, with ambulances parked or moving out, cold neon light spilling out from the large double doors of the emergency reception. Schuldig seemed to know the place rather well, for he pulled up on the emergency ramp with screeching brakes, slotted the vehicle securely into a space between a couple of ambulances, and was out of the car and yelling for a doctor before Aya could scramble after him.

Moments later, Schuldig and a nurse had to pry Aya off the emergency stretcher where he lay half-draped over Yohji and whispered madly into his ear. A gaggle of white and green coated medical personnel hurriedly wheeled away the bed with Yohji's silent form on it, and Aya found himself dragged into a small cubicle, fenced with metal-framed green canvas screens, even as the doors of the operating theatre swung shut.

This closing of doors sent a wave of ice through Aya.

Wrought up and no longer bothering to hide it, his face flecked with crimson patches, his clothes and his hands bloodied, he refused to sit down or wash. The nurse shot him unsettled glances, and he realised that he still clasped the blank katana to his chest. Without a word, he sheathed it and leaned against the door."I'm listening," he grated.

Schuldig turned to the woman, a toothy grin plastered over his young face."No," he said, flicking his wrist to show her something in the palm of his hand, "we will not need the police here. We're already taking care of this. I gotta leave now; the gentleman here will go through the formalities with you." He stalked towards the door, and on his way out lightly brushed his arm against Aya's."How careless you are," he breathed, "with the things you love…"

Aya stiffened."Piss off," he muttered.

Schuldig smiled."I'm about to. Got unfinished business to attend."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the nurse blinked at Aya in irritation."Now, Mr. . ."

Aya started from his daze."Satoh /2/ he answered automatically, having rehearsed his new identity often enough to know it in his sleep."Satoh Mareo /3/. He's my brother, Yasuo /4/. He's a private investigator. Had an accident with his gun while cleaning the thing."

She completed an admission form and signed it, then pushed it over to Aya, along with a pen."Please Satoh-san, would you mind filling in his insurance number?"

"He hasn't got one anymore. We were about to move away." Aya read, signed, and handed paper and pen back to her; then he got up."You can charge the bills to my account; I have completed the details for you. Now, is that it? If you don't mind, I'd like to wait by the theatre."

xxx

Aya spent endless hours pacing in front of the operating theatre, moving no farther than a dozen steps either direction. He refused to let go of the sword and threatened the nurse and the doctor who tried to talk him into giving it up. Only when they mentioned hospital security did he reluctantly yield, too afraid of getting thrown out, and handed them the blade without further fuss.

People came and went. The red light above the theatre door was still on. Aya felt hollow and cold. He would have to make some phone calls later to rearrange his travel plans. _Later,_ he thought, _everything is always later, and sometimes it is too late. . . _

In the afternoon, he had to sit down, exhausted, hungry and dehydrated, and his glance fell upon a newspaper someone had read and left behind on one in the row of plastic chairs. 'Mince meat for diner,' a headline on the folded over open page yelled, 'Police investigating gory deaths of three teenagers. Staff leaving for home after their night shift at a beach diner, located at a renown beauty spot, under severe shock after stumbling across chopped-up bodies this morning. . . '

Aya dropped the paper, buried his face in his hands and sat motionless, staring vacantly through his splayed fingers at the smooth white floor. He felt numb and hollow, so much that he was not even surprised when a pair of sneaker-encased feet approached and halted in front of him. A faint whiff of cool aftershave washed over him, mingling with a trace of tobacco smoke and the sharp smells of the hospital, and then he heard Omi say, "Hey, I expected you to be somewhere in the States by now."

Aya did not stir."How d'you find me?" he mumbled.

Omi sat down beside him."I only had to place a tracker on your account," he said, his tone almost kind, "It showed a withdrawal made by the hospital here."

Ah, yes, he had almost forgotten what Omi was capable of."Go away," Aya said listlessly."I'm done with you."

This time, Omi's thin hand settled on his shoulder."I'm afraid it might be rather more complex than that," the young man said softly."We need to talk, Ayan. Now."

**xxx**

NOTES:

/1/ Guten Morgen - good morning  
/2/ Satoh - wisteria, a play on Ran's surname Fujimiya – wisteria shrine  
/3/ Maseo - rare  
/4/ Yasuo - peaceful one

Coming soon - next chapter: **To Live Forever**


	5. Chapter 5 To Live Forever

**Winding Down V – To Live Forever**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.  
Warning: NC-15/M. ANGST. Hints at M/M relationships.

**xxx**

Thank youto everyone who took the time to send me reviews for my stories -it is motivating to find that people actually like them, and special thanks to those of you who also tell me why.

Cheers  
Aabunai

**xxx**

Aya sat on a white plastic chair by the window of the small room with Yohji's bed. He had come to know every contour, every bump and shade in the seemingly smooth material because he had time to fill, and he filled it by sitting on this chair and staring out of the window. Day after night after day.

Sometimes, Omi would call, his voice distant through the phone, to ask how Yohji was doing. Most days passed in silence though, except for the scheduled bustle of nurses and doctors looking after Yohji. He had taken his sweet time to come round after the operation, and now he could not speak because a ventilator tube was jammed down his throat. Doused by sedatives, he hovered somewhere between waking and oblivion, and Aya was not even sure whether Yohji registered his presence.

Staring outside helped Aya to empty his mind. He had come to know the shades of the concrete and tarmac of the street a couple of storeys below the window. The faded grey of the ageing high-rises, clad with garish neon lights in an attempt to disguise their bareness, the dark grey of the tarmac that would blacken when rain washed the dust away, the leaden grey of the city sky. Aya's world consisted of shades of grey. Sometimes, he hated it. More often, he was too numb to bother.

He had become used to the canvas of sounds,clamourous or subtle, that wove into the stillness of the hospital room. Slurring steps or hurried steps, shouts and whispers on the white corridor outside, the soft rustling of Yohji's sheets when he tried in vain to move, entangled in tubes and bandages.

Like some insect spun into a garish cocoon, Aya thought, shifting to relieve the pressure of the chair on his back, like Yohji had enmeshed him with his wire the first time they ran into each other. His hands were folded over his latest bank statement. Aya kept his records tidily tucked away in a slim file on Yohji's nightstand, and carefully tracked the dwindling credit. Yohji should hurry up with his recovery, he mused vaguely. Aya was loath leaving the room, let alone considering some mission that would drag him away from here, yet he had resigned himself to the fact that savings and credit would soon disappear into the same void that had swallowed a lifetime of work already.

Sometimes he wondered whether his purpose in life consisted of paying medical bills.

Omi's offer had not been a friendly one. _This is your fault 'cos you've been a jackass, and you're lucky to get another chance. Take it or leave it,_ the chibi had told him, knowing full well that 'leave it' was not an option Kritiker would tolerate, having made up their mind to accept him back. And Aya needed the money.

He did not turn at the light draft and the soft clicking of the door. The nurses would make more noise and did not usually smell of cigarette smoke. "Why, Abyssinian, contemplating the rain?" Before he knew it, the smell of wet clothes engulfed him. Strands of copper hair brushed over his shoulder, and Aya flinched away in disgust.

"Get off me, Schuldig."

"Oh, we're moody today. As we were yesterday and will be tomorrow." He laughed and sat down at the foot end of the bed. "What the hell does he find in you?"

Right, what? Ayashot him a glare. "Get off there," he pressed through gritted teeth.

"But where should I sit?" Schuldig gave him a grin. "On your lap? I don't think so. On his? Anytime, baby."

"What do you want here?"

"Same as always:see how he's doing." He paused, dangling his legs, his eyes gleaming from beneath the mess of red hair. "Since you can't take proper care of anyone. He was stupid to trust you, Abyssinian, wasn't he?"

Aya swallowed hard. It was the same song every time Schuldig called. He turned up rather frequently, with an unerring sense for the least appropriate moment, and then he would goad and prod until Aya bled inside. Heal over, scrape raw, bleed, heal... sort of. Never getting used to it, for the cool voice cut him with guilt the way his katana would slice through flesh and bone. Yet the blade was gathering dust in the hospital safe, and Aya bore the taunts as just penance.

For he had come to believe that Schuldig was right.

Schuldig left cash after every visit. Handfuls of used, non-sequential bills, crumpled up, damp and warm from being stuffed into his jeans pockets. He did not even bundle the money but scattered it over the bedspread and the floor, a blatant insult to Aya. Who picked the bank notes up without complaint or questions.

Omi though never came to see Yohji. Instead, he dropped sealed plain white envelopes with the matron who would hand them to Aya. The envelopes contained cheques, drawn on an account in Omi's name. Aya accepted this too without hesitation. He had been brought up to be cultured and pragmatic. The latter, he thought, helped him through the life he was leading. The former he preferred to ignore as useless and fraught with unwelcome memories.

Ayadid not likedeceiving himself. Yohji had sufferedhim, in his hope to revive what was left of Ran. How foolish, Aya thought crossly. Here, in this stark white room, neither flowers nor origami shapes could be of any use because Aya had failed to deploy his sword in time. Schuldig had finished the job for him. Schuldig, of all people...

"He won't appreciate it," the loathsome voice touched Aya's mind, and he half-turned. "Though I did enjoy cutting up those little dopes. I helped you out here, man."

"You still here?"

"Looks like he's trying to reach you, Abyssinian, and look where you are – gaping at the fuckin' street as though you'd wanna jump outta the window." A vague smirk crossed Schuldig's face, leaving his eyes untouched and strangely dark.

"He cannot try anything," Aya grated, "he's out cold."

"You're so daft." Schuldig leaned over Yohji, swathes of unbound copper washing over both their faces, and Aya rose from his chair.

"Get. Out. Now."

"Yeah, yeah." Schuldig straightened and stared back defiantly. "I can'tget hold of him." He paused, as though he was about to add something, but then he only snorted and got up. He stalked out andbanged the door shut, loud enough to receive disapproving murmurs outside. Aya nearly laughed – he could just imagine Schuldig's reaction to being told off about closing doors too noisily.

Yohji shifted, and Aya sensed restlessness. He dragged his chair across to the bed andscooped up Yohji's hand. Limp and cold, those hard long fingers lay on his own warm, short ones. Aya leaned his forehead onto the mattress. He did not know what to say. He hated being here, trapped in this clean white cage of a room, with all those people whose job it was to help others stay alive and get better. He was soiled with blood and death and drowning in a swamp of memories of watching over another still form on a hospital bed.

People changed so much. The barely living body here bore no semblance to Yohji as Aya knew him, and it scared him. Kept alive by the softly hissing ventilator, drips and drainage tubes, the smells of illness wafting about him – blood, waste, disinfectant. His skin looked like parchment, flabby and waxy over sharply protruding bones and slack muscles. His hair was greasy and brushed back to framehis stillface. It hadgone harsh without its smile and the sparkle of green eyes that remained closed, sunk deeply into blackened sockets. The breathing tube stuck from the mask over his mouth like some grotesque trunk, robbing him of any expression. No, this hardly was Yohji as he knew him.

Aya hated hospitals and the things within.

He shifted, and paper rustled softly inside his jeans pocket. Aya stood and stretched, then stuck his hand into the pocket to retrieve the paper. Walking back to the window, he absentmindedly closed his hand and pressed it against his chest. For some time, he stood still, watching the meaningless hustle of traffic and people. What had Schuldig said – he could notget hold ofYohji?

What a sad kind of triumph.

For Aya could not reach him either.

He lifted the clenched hand and slowlyopened his fingers, to reveal a scrap of paper, folded many a time, crisp and rusty with dried blood. The thing had fallen out of Yohji's shirt when the nurses in the emergency room undressed him. They had given it to Aya because they thought it might be something important.

Aya smoothed it out on his flattened hand until it had regained its shape, cuffed and stained, but unmistakable.

A paper crane.

**xxx**

"Yohji?" Aya leaned over him as he slowly opened his eyes.

He tried to say something, but his throat hurt too much, and his chest burned, but his lips moved, silently forming a word. Ran. He shifted, and the bedspread rustled oddly. Leaning back into his chair, Aya watched as Yohji groped around weakly.

Hands closing around fistfuls of paper,Yohji dragged them up and unfurled his fingers, small white birds dripping back onto the bed. He gathered an armful and let them fall, looking on as they drifted down like a shower of giant cherry blossoms.

A smile began to curve his lips that were still cracked from the ventilator mouthpiece, and broadened when he made to sit up. Aya helped him, holding him close even when he had adjusted the headboard and settled Yohji back against the pillows. A white paper square dangled from Aya's fingers, and with his arms round Yohji's shoulders, he slowly and methodically folded it in front of Yohji's bandaged chest.

"Nine-thousand-seven-hundred-and-ninety-nine," he whispered, pressing his face into Yohji's messy hair. "A thousand were not enough for you, were they?"

A small croak that might pass for laughter answered him, and Yohji leaned back to meet his eyes. Aya closed his, not ready yet to face him, but a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Now my fingers hurt," he murmured.

And through the flood of paper shapes, Yohji's hands reached for him and enfolded his fingers and the crane in a feeble grip.

**xxx**

They all turned up that day – Aya suspected Omi had bullied the doctors into keeping him posted with information on Yohji's recovery, and now not only the chibi came to visit, but also Ken, and – trailing in their wake as though it were the most natural thing in the world – Schuldig, wearing a broad grin on his handsome face.

They had not exactly brought flowers. Weiss were back in business, Omi informed them coolly, and if Yohji wanted...

"He doesn't," Aya cut in angrily.

Omi gave him a sidelong glance but did not argue. "Schuldig works for me now," he said quietly, and somewhat incongruously.

How strange, it crossed Aya's mind, surely this was just an odd dream, and why did he have to bring this up now? From his place by the window, he looked at Yohji who quietly accepted their good wishes. Omi watched, picked up one of the paper birds, and for the first time since Aya had decided to leave the Koneko, Omi gave him a small smile. Cautious, guarded, but truefor it shone from his cool blue eyes as much as it touched his lips. "Enough for another nine lives," he said and turned to Yohji who laughed and winced at the stab of pain in his sore chest.

"Enough to live forever," he rasped. "Can you all get out now?"

Omi and Ken left quietly. Schuldig, of course, had to linger. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. "Me too?"

"Idiot," Yohji mumbled. "How's the rest of you?"

Schuldig shrugged. "Brad's still too sick to travel." His voice strained a little as he went on,"Far's admitted himself to an institution. I go and see him when I can. He's doing fine. Nagi's in business with me." He shook his blazing mane. "We're filling up your ranks, Balinese, so no hard feelings, huh?" For a moment, it seemed as though he was about to add something, but then he only winked at them and walked out, for once closing the door quietly behind him.

Silence filled the room once more. Aya picked up a paper square.

"Ayan?" Gasping with the effort, Yohji tried to sit up a bit more. "What was that?"

Aya kept folding, his fingers moving automatically, creating paper birds to add to those that already flooded the room, some squashed by busy feet, or heaped in the corners – he had not allowed the nurses to clear them away, and for some reason, they had not insisted. "A friendly visit," he answered after a while, his eyes still focused on the small white shape and the bundle of origami paper in his lap.

"Please," Yohji said softly, and Aya finally looked up to meet his gaze. Yohji looked so exhausted, though his eyes were calm, a little cool perhaps, but this was to be expected...

"So you took time out to come and visit me here?" Yohji broke the stillness. "How's your contract going then?"

"I never went." Aya folded his hands over the almost finished crane. "Instead, I spent weeks on this damn chair."

"Oh." A spark gleamed in Yohji's eyes. "Weeks, huh?" he wheezed. "Without sex..."

Aya groaned. Impossible that he should have his mind on THAT again, considering the state he was in...

"You should have gone," Yohjibroke into his thoughts, his smile darkening a little, his tone rueful.

Aya shrugged, unsure what to say.

Yohji gestured vaguelyat the room. "You paying for me here?"

Aya froze on his chair. Yohji was way too sharp for his own good.

"So who is, if not you? Kritiker? Omi arranged something?" Yohji pondered for a moment, scratching at the bandage around his chest. "Chalking it all up to 'debts to be deducted from future earnings', huh?"

"It's not as though I had anything better to do," Aya finally said, with a stiff shrug even asan icy suspicion sank into his mind - had it all been a setup? Schuldig had silenced those three young louts who had shot Yohji, and now he worked for the chibi. But Omi would never... or would he?

"You're stupid," Yohji snapped, choked and began togulp air in rattling gaspsbecause he could not cough. Aya was by his side in a flash and dragged him up and close, cradling him in a hard embrace. "Stupid," Yohji insisted when he could speak again, "you should be doing something beautiful. Teach, perhaps. Calligraphy, kendo, even ikebana perhaps." He laid agaunt hand on Aya's thigh. "Why don't you try it at least?"

"Is that why you let me go that evening?" Aya shook his head. "There's too much blood on my hands. How could I ever face a class full of students? Pretend to be like everyone else?"

"No one would know."

"I would." He began to knead Yohji's shoulders and neck, and felt him sag, relaxing further against Aya behind him. He felt soft and bony, so different from his usual fit, wiry self.

"What did you do with the kimono I gave you?" Yohji asked after a while. **/1/**

"I sold it," Aya replied without interrupting his gentle treatment of wasted muscles.

Yohji reached up and seized his hands. "Well, I suppose it was the reasonable thing to do. Help me up, hm?"

Aya obeyed. He helped Yohji to sit up, adjust the long hospital gown that flowed around him like a shroud – Aya hated the thing and vowed to get him to wear pyjamas for the rest of his stay – and gather a heap of paper birds into the bunched front of the garment. He opened the window when Yohji asked him, and stepped back, watching.

He felt his heart lurch when Yohji smiled at him andleaned against the window frame. So close, Aya thought with a dragging sensation in his chest, and the windowsill is so low; he only needs to tip over...But he resisted the urge to jump and gather Yohji up, instead he stayed still and tense at his place, following each of Yohji's movements like a hawk. Bending forward a little,Yohji looked over the busy street, gazed up into the smoggy sky, and then spread his arms and shook the birds from the bunched gown.

A cloud of white specks, theyfluttered through the air that wasmurky with exhaust fumes. The hot summer breeze picked them up, and they playfully swirled and danced for moments of blissful oblivion before sailing down onto the tarmac, to be crushed under the rushing feet of passers-by and the tyres of passing cars.

Yohji watched them settle, then he turned around to meet Aya's gaze. "Now,"he said softly, "I will live forever." His smile broadened. "You might regret that one day. Hell, how long has it been since I slept with you?"

Aya gaped at him incredulously. Yohji laughed, doubled over with pain and was still laughing and groaning when Aya grabbed him and dragged him back to his bed. "Weeks," he yapped as he tucked Yohji in, "fucking weeks with no sex, all because you wouldn't bloody listen to me! And you'll have to tell me what's going on with you and Schuldig, dammit! You know he helped folding the stupid things, do you? Man, Yohji, Yohji..." He grew still, and Yohji grasped his hand.

"What's this?" He pried Aya's fingers apart.

There lay the bloodstained crane, crumpled and damp with sweat. Yohji placed his hand over it, lacing his fingers with Aya's. "Hey."

Aya met his eyes, looking lost. Yohji smiled. "Let it go now, will you?"

AndAyalet the bird fly with the others.

Forever.  
Forever Kritiker.  
Forever Yohji.  
Forever life.

**xxx The End xxx**

**/1/** see 'Special Gifts'

For Yohji's odd relationship with Schuldig, see my multi-chapter story (in progress), 'Fading Light'. 'Special Gifts' fits into 'Fading Light' as a side-story after Aya's breakdown and Yohji's attempt to win him back, 'Winding Down' are snapshot stories that run parallel with 'Fading Light', fromthe early days of Weiss(I Transformation), through the time when Aya loses his old self (II Trapped), until after the cataclysm of the tower and the break-up of Weiss (III All Over, IV Full Circle), to the recovery, of sorts,of Weiss and Schwarz (V To Live Forever).

My story 'Harigane' attempts to shed some light onto Yohji and Weiss team dynamics, as I see them - it's the boys on the job.


End file.
